“Otto!” he cried. The door was more than halfway shut.
George crouched down, reached through the hatch door, and grabbed Otto’s hand.
“Let go, boy!” Otto shouted through gritted teeth. “Save yourself!”
George shook his head. “I won’t lose you too, Uncle Otto!” He pulled with all his strength, in a desperate tug-of-war with the dog-bot.
Jackbot caught George around the waist and pulled, and then Anne joined in too. The three of them dragged Otto up the last few stairs.
First his head was through, then one arm, and finally his body was clear of the door.
But the robot dog held tight to his other arm.
“OTTO!” George shouted.
The steel door closed as Otto’s howls of pain cut through the air.
The sun shone brightly through the hospital window, onto the white sheets of Otto’s bed, the unshaven bristles of his jaw, and the gleaming silver robotic arm that doctors had just spent the whole night attaching to his shoulder.
“How does it feel?” George asked. He was sitting at his uncle’s bedside with Anne and Jackbot.
Otto clenched and unclenched the steel fingers. “I guess I’ll get used to it,” he said.
There was a short pause, during which Otto tried to lift a water pitcher with his new arm but lost his grip. The pitcher tipped and almost fell, but George grabbed it. “Let me, Uncle Otto.” He poured the glass of water and put it in Otto’s other hand.
“Funny,” said Otto, in a voice that suggested he couldn’t actually see the funny side. “I never liked robots much, and now I’m half a robot myself!”
“Not half,” Jackbot said. “An arm makes up approximately ten percent of a human body, Otto.”
“Well, thanks a million, Mr. Know-It-All,” said Otto, but George caught him trying to hide a smile.
“Otto,” George said, lowering his gaze. “I don’t think I’ve properly thanked you for saving me.”
Otto waved his robot arm as if brushing the thanks away. “You’re my nephew. You know I’d do anything for you, you big doofus.”
“And you rescued me, too!” said Anne. “In fact, you saved the whole town.”
Otto’s cheeks flushed red. “It was nothing. Forget it.”
There was something niggling at George’s mind that he’d been wanting to ask. “Otto, how did you figure out that Micron was the one who bought the junkyard?”
Otto gazed out the window. “After what happened at the barbecue, I started realizing that all that money wasn’t bringing me the happiness I thought it would. So, last night I decided to go to the yard and ask Mr. Freezie to sell it back to me. Your stubborn little robot wouldn’t let me go alone, so he tagged along. We saw that hatch wide open, and we overheard what Micron was planning. Jackbot put two and two together, and well . . .” His voice trailed off. “We just had to do something, so I ran inside.”
George smiled. “I’m so glad you did,” he said, putting a hand on his uncle’s shoulder. “After all, what would Terabyte Heights be without Otto’s Grotto?”
Otto blushed even deeper, then cleared his throat. “George, listen. I want to tell you something. I . . . I knew your parents had something hidden in the junkyard.”
George gasped, then remembered how uncomfortable Otto had been when he had mentioned seeing the hatch hidden under his parents’ old car. “But why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.
Otto sighed. “I didn’t know exactly what it was, but your folks made me swear that if anything happened to them, I’d keep you safe. That I’d only tell you about this stuff when the time was right. I just didn’t think that time would come so soon.” Otto met George’s eyes. “George—I meant what I said that first day you went off to TinkerTech. You need to be careful, all right? Your mom and dad got into something bigger than they could handle when they were working there, and I’m pretty sure it got them killed. I just don’t want the same thing to happen to you. Now you know the truth about all this—I can’t help that. But can you promise me you’ll stay out of trouble?”
“I promise,” said George. “Anyway, all the stuff inside the lab’s busted, and Micron’s locked up. There’s no more trouble to get into.” George swallowed hard as he recalled having gone back into the lab that morning to see what was left after the self-destruct sequence had been completed. The secured hatch had been removed by paramedic-bots while they were rescuing Otto. Inside, the walls of the lab were blackened by fire, and the whole place smelled like melted rubber and burned metal. The machines were mangled and burned, but partially salvageable. George had already begun thinking of how he might rebuild them . . . but Otto didn’t need to know that right now.
A robot nurse in a blue uniform bustled in, wheeling a cart full of medicines. George noticed her name badge—Nurse Linux. “Time for your medication, Mr. Fender!”
“Thanks,” said Otto, crunching up the tablets the nurse gave him and swallowing them with water. “Hey, can I get attachments fitted on this thing? You know, like a wrench, or an adjustable screwdriver?”
“I believe you can,” Nurse Linux said. “But you must speak to the doctor about that. Now, don’t overtire yourself. Your friends must leave your room—visiting hours are over.”
“Rest up, Otto,” said George, moving to the door. “You’ll be out of here in no time.” Despite how grumpy Otto could be, George missed him. Being alone in the house was starting to get lonely, even though Jackbot and Mr. Egg, the cook-bot, were looking out for him.
“Feel better soon, Otto,” said Anne.
Jackbot reached up with his pincer to touch the metal fingers on Otto’s new robotic arm. George saw his uncle’s eyes get watery for a moment before he barked, “All right, all right. Get out of here, you kids.”
George smiled, and closed the door to Otto’s room softly behind him.
George, Anne, and Jackbot stepped out the front doors of the hospital only to find themselves face-to-face with Patricia Volt. She was carrying a bouquet of flowers, and Cookie was hovering by her side. “What are you doing here?” George asked her.
“My dad is recovering from MOD withdrawal,” Patricia said, not meeting George’s eyes. “Apparently he played one too many games of Extreme Total Smash-Up.”
George looked down and saw Jackbot staring at Cookie with eyes filled with longing. Cookie looked back, beeped, and finally said, “Your exterior is dirty and covered in a millimeter of rust. I can remove the contamination with my buffer attachment . . . if you wish.”
If George didn’t know better, he would have thought he could hear Jackbot’s battery compartment thumping in excitement. George sighed. “Well, Jackbot? What are you waiting for?”
Jackbot looked up at George, then back at Cookie.
“Thanks for the offer, Cookie,” Jackbot said. “But maybe another time. Right now, my best friend needs me.”
George’s heart soared as Jackbot clamped his pincer around George’s hand and led him away from the hospital.
Anne offered George and Jackbot a lift in the Droids’ smartcar, and George was about to say yes when Jackbot interrupted. “Do you mind if we walk?” he said to Anne. “I’d like to talk to George.”
“Sure thing,” Anne said. “See you later!” She got in her car and it sped away.
George and Jackbot walked across the hospital grounds. It was a pleasant spring day, and George enjoyed the feel of the warm air on his face and the scent of flowers all around.
They came to a wooden bench under a tree, and Jackbot sat down on it. “Come sit with me for a second,” Jackbot said. “I have something to tell you, George.”
“What is it?” George asked, still standing.
“I’ve finally decrypted the Project Mercury file we downloaded from Dr. Micron’s office,” Jackbot said. “It was the most elaborate software protection I’ve ever seen—many passwords, all kinds of firewalls, everything you could imagine and more. I’m guessing it’s the work of your parents. They must have wanted to m
ake sure that Micron couldn’t break in. But after a bit of work, yours truly was able to hack their code, of course.” Jackbot sounded quite pleased with himself. “Anyway, the file—it’s . . . quite a surprise. You’d better sit down, for this, George.”
“What?” said George, suddenly nervous. He sat beside his friend on the bench. “What did you find?”
“Most of the files cover the design for the Project Mercury machine,” said Jackbot. “But there’s an additional design for your marble. Turns out it’s not just a way into the lab, but also a holo-projector, protected by a voice code.”
“A holo-projector?” asked George.
“Yes, and it contains a message,” said Jackbot. “From your parents.”
A wave of heavy sadness enveloped George. “But . . . I don’t have the marble anymore. It burned up in the lab!”
“No, it didn’t,” Jackbot said. He reached into his chest compartment and took out the marble. “I picked it up as I was running for the door.”
George gasped. He took the marble from Jackbot and held it in his hand, its comforting, familiar warmth filling him with relief. “Jackbot, you’re amazing!”
“I know,” said the robot. “But you made me, remember? So I guess that makes you pretty amazing too. Now—” Jackbot’s voice got serious again. “Are you ready to see the message?”
George stared at the marble, his throat dry. “Yes, but—how do I activate it?”
“The files say there is a password,” Jackbot said. “Something only you would know.”
George frowned. “I have no idea what it could be.”
“Think, George,” said Jackbot. “There must be something you shared with them. Something private.”
George racked his brain. Since the day his father had put the marble into his palm and closed his tiny fingers over it, George had carried the marble with him everywhere. “Keep this safe, Georgie Porgie,” his father had said. “Keep it safe, for your good old dad.”
“Porgie!” said George suddenly.
Jackbot cocked his head. “I’m sorry?”
“That’s what they used to call me. After some nursery rhyme—Georgie Porgie.”
Suddenly, there was a vibration in his hand. George looked down to see the surface of the marble swirling and shifting, as if it were mercury itself. George lowered it onto his lap, shielding it with his body in case anyone else could see. As the marble glowed white, two figures appeared above it, beamed there with rays of light. George’s mouth uttered something between a gasp and a wail of shock. He was looking at his parents.
“Hi, George,” said his father.
“If you’re getting this message,” his mother said, “then you’ve cracked the code, and you know all about Project Mercury.”
“We knew you could do it,” his dad said. “We’re so proud of you. Now that you’re old enough, you’re ready to know the whole truth.”
The whole truth? thought George in complete astonishment. What do they mean?
“We’re not dead, George,” said his mother.
George thought his heart had stopped.
“We’re . . . in storage,” continued his father. “To prevent Dr. Micron from getting his hands on us and the Project Mercury technology, we had to convert ourselves to binary data. Please. Do not trust him, George. Under any circumstances.”
“Now listen carefully,” said his mother. “You can bring us back, George. With Project Mercury, it can be done. Depending on how long it’s been since we disappeared, the machine may need a little tuning up—”
George thought of the smoking hulks in the Mercury Lab and swallowed hard.
“But you’re a Gearing, George. And Gearings never give up,” she finished.
“Once you locate our data,” his father said seriously, “use the machine to convert us back to atoms.”
“I know we’re asking a lot of you, son,” his mother said. “But we believe in you.”
“We love you, George,” said his dad. “No matter what happens, remember that.”
And just like that they were gone. But their words echoed in George’s heart. He stared at the marble, then at Jackbot, then back at the marble, speechless.
“I told you it was a surprise,” said Jackbot.
It was a beautiful Saturday morning in Terabyte Heights. Birds sang in the trees, and sunlight beamed through the kitchen window on George Gearing and Jackbot, who sat together at the breakfast table, playing a lively game of User-Virus-Firewall.
George whipped his hand out from behind his back, curled into a claw to represent Virus. Jackbot’s metal pincer whirled around at the same instant, holding up a cardboard cutout of a hand with all five fingers straight up.
“Firewall blocks Virus!” Jackbot crowed. “I win!”
“All right, all right,” George said. “One more time!”
I bet he’ll do Firewall again, George thought. He probably thinks I won’t expect it because he’s just done it. I’ll get him with User!
He thrust his hand out, two fingers pointing down like little legs—only to see Jackbot turn around holding the cardboard cutout of the claw hand.
“Ha!” Jackbot cried. “Virus annoys User! I am the champion!” Jackbot did a victory dance around the kitchen and bowed to his imaginary fans. “Want to go again? Best out of thirty?”
“No, thanks,” George said, sagging into his chair. “I think I’ve had enough humiliating defeats for one day.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault you made me a genius,” Jackbot said.
From the other side of the table, Uncle Otto looked up at them with a scowl. “Could you two please stop bickering and give me a little peace and quiet?” he asked. “I’m trying to concentrate here!”
Otto was hunched over, holding a small electric motor in one hand while carefully loosening the tiny casing screws with the screwdriver attachment of his robotic arm. It had been several weeks since Otto had been released from the hospital, and he was finally getting used to his new prosthetic.
“Couldn’t you fix that later, when we get to the junkyard?” George asked.
“I could,” Otto replied, not taking his eyes off his work. “But this is the motor for the air conditioning unit in the truck, and it’s supposed to be hot today.”
George smirked. That wasn’t the only reason his uncle couldn’t resist tinkering. Otto had always distrusted modern technology, but once he’d been fitted with his new arm, things had changed. Otto loved it and all of its various attachments. He used them every chance he got.
George rose from the table to grab a glass of orange juice and a couple slices of bread. He turned to Jackbot and held out the bread in front of him. “Will you do the honors?” George asked.
But before Jackbot could answer, Otto reached over and grabbed the bread from George. “Allow me!” he said. Otto squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating hard. A moment later, the screwdriver attachment in his arm retracted, and was instantly replaced by a blowtorch. Grinning with pride, Otto then proceeded to wave the blowtorch over the slices of bread in a complex design. Finally, he handed the toasted bread back to George with a flourish. “There you go, kid! Eat up!”
George studied the design on the toast, puzzled. “Is it supposed to be a dinosaur?”
“Or perhaps an ancient Viking rune of some sort?” Jackbot guessed.
Otto glowered at them. “It’s a smiley face, you boneheads! Gee, talk about giving a guy a hard time . . .”
George grinned and took a huge bite of toast. “It’s perfect, Otto,” he said through a mouthful. “Thanks.”
“Say it, don’t spray it,” Jackbot said, holding up his Firewall hand to block the crumbs.
Just then the doorbell rang. George zigzagged around Mr. Egg and the dishwasher-bot, who were bustling around in the kitchen, ran down the hallway, and opened the door. He found his elderly neighbor, Mrs. Glitch, standing there. Her gray curly hair sprung out from her head in an even wilder fashion than usual, like a star going supernova. Her eyes
looked puffy and red, as if she had been crying. A robot with a TV screen for a head stood by her side. George knew the robot well—it was Hector Protector, Mrs. Glitch’s glitchy security-bot.
“Good morning,” George said. “Is everything all right? Does HP need fixing again?” The old robot was always breaking down in weird ways—a couple of months ago he had started hanging upside down from trees, and another time he had kept saying everything backwards. Each time, Mrs. Glitch had come to George for help.
“No, no, it’s—it’s not that,” Mrs. Glitch said, shaking her head. “He’s fine—just peachy. Aren’t you, Hector?”
“I am fine,” HP said expressionlessly. He’d been made before the voice intonation programs were improved. “How are you?”
“I’m, uh, great,” George said, confused. “So . . . if nothing’s wrong with HP, what can I do for you?”
Mrs. Glitch took a deep, steadying breath and said, “You have to take him, George. I can’t keep him anymore.”
George was shocked. “You’re giving him up?” he exclaimed. “But you’ve had HP for years!”
“Seven years, two months, and twenty-one days,” HP confirmed flatly.
“I don’t want to get rid of him,” Mrs. Glitch said, her voice quavering. “But I’m the only person on the block who still has a robot—besides you, George. People are starting to give me dirty looks! Everyone else has deactivated their bots. I mean, I can’t really blame them. After what happened, how do we know that TinkerTech products are safe?”
“Of course they’re safe!” George said. “Except when Dr. Micron made all the robots into crazed killers . . . and then when he turned the MOD devices into deadly mind-control machines . . .”
Mrs. Glitch raised an eyebrow. “Does that sound safe to you?”
“Well, no,” George said. “But Micron’s locked away in prison. With Professor Droid reinstated at TinkerTech, I bet everything will be back to normal in no time.”
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